The Spirit of the Times: A Law and Order:Criminal Intent Ghost Story
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"What do the dead do, Uncle? Do they eat, hear music, go a-hunting, be merry as we that live?"
"No, coz. They sleep."
"Lord, Lord that I were dead. I have not slept these three nights."
-John Webster, The White Devil
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Being dead was not as difficult as Alexandra Eames thought it would be.
It surprised her. She'd always thought that being dead would be a lot harder. Or at least more heart-wrenching and emotional and whatnot. Instead, she found herself to be mildly inquisitive over being one of the Faithful Departed. Her days were spent in contemplations and remember-when's, thinking on all she'd done with the glasses of hindsight. She walked alongside Bobby and pretended to be his muse when he worked his cases. He shouldn't have to be alone, she reasoned.
After all, it wasn't like she had anything else to do.
Her death had been a fairly painless one. She vaguely remembered feeling a brief, intense flash of it before everything had gone to black, and then to the grey haziness that heralded her entrance into the afterlife.
A gun had gone off and it had hit something important, something vitally important. She'd had time to clutch the wound and exclaim the words "Oh, Fuck! Bobby, I…" before lapsing into unconsciousness, and then death. When she awoke, she remembered being upset about being shot while wearing her new blouse. It was silk, and the perfect shade of blue and now it had a giant, bloody hole in it. Not that it matters, she thought, what with being dead and all.
She wondered what Bobby had done about that. She rather suspected he hadn't taken it at all well.
Alex Eames had come back to existence (in the purely spiritual sense) just in time to attend her own funeral. It had been surprisingly well attended. The flowers had been lovely and the bagpipes had been played rather well, she thought. She could have done without seeing her family and Bobby suffering as much as they clearly were, but she supposed it couldn't be helped. Part of her was happy that everyone thought so highly of her. It made her feel loved. It would have warmed my heart, she though, if only she'd still had one.
She made a mental note to stop being so literal. Eames had never heard of sarcastic ghost-thingies before, and she really should stop taking her chances. What if she made a wise-crack and an angel scooped her off to purgatory, or hell or something? Is being irreverent during your afterlife a hell worthy trespass these days? She wondered. Best not take that particular chance.
The first few days she had wandered about aimlessly, trying to do whatever it was that ghosts were supposed to do. She hung around her family, her friends, tried to speak to them and write things in the bathroom mirror and rearrange the silverware when they weren't looking. She'd tried banging on the wall and moaning a lot. She quickly discovered that she couldn't actually touch anything, not even if she really tried, and that the couldn't hear her anyway. So, she figured all the ghost stories she'd ever heard were a bunch of crap and moved on to do other things.
Once she figured out the whole floating-through-the-air thing, Alex walked to Europe. She'd always wanted to visit, and it really hadn't taken much time to walk across the Atlantic Ocean at all. And it's not like she had anything else to do. After Europe, she'd come home. Something had drawn her back. So she'd come home, floated about the city and pondered the meaning of Life After Death, and looked back on her Before-Death Life and reminisced about her time on earth among the living. She'd been doing that a lot lately.
In the spirit of trying new things she'd always wanted to try, she'd satisfied a long-held wish to spit off the top of the Empire State building. (If a ghost spits off the top of a building, and no one can see she's done it, will she still be punished for it?) While she was up there she, thought about an old Carey Grant movie, and wondered if she really was as close as she would ever get to heaven. Much soul-searching and one attempt at prayer (Are you there, God? It's me, Alex.) Alex realized that she was waiting. For what exactly she wasn't sure, but she had a sinking suspicion it had to do with Bobby Goren.
It figures, she though indulgently. Even in death I can't shake him.
As the days went by, she trailed after him more and more. She couldn't help it. Things had been left so unfinished between them. She had gone so suddenly. That, though Alex. Is what I regret. We never had time.
She couldn't say what it was they hadn't had the time for, but Alex suspected it was something big. Something grand and wonderful and life-changing in all the best, still-alive-to-live-your-life, kind of ways.
So now she follows him, and she waits for the end to come. She isn't afraid. In fact, she rather suspects it will be her big, Happy Ending. Motherfucking literally, she thinks. Alex knows she'll have to move on sometime, but for now there's Bobby to look after and the little voice in the back of her head that whispered "Remember when…"
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Wow. I have a penchant for getting Alex shot. I should work on that.
Technically, this has the same title as the last chapter, but I'm using it in a completely different context here. It's a pun, you see.
So I was painting my nails today. (La Paz-Itively Hot. It's a really bright, Barbie-Skank hot pink. I'm not really a pink person, but I'm in that kind of mood.)
Anyway, whatever. I was painting my nails, and the line, "Being dead wasn't all that hard" popped into my head, along with the last line. I said "Holy Shit!", put down the nail polish mid-right hand, and wrote you guys a Halloween present. Think of this as a bonus gift. for what, i don't know. just go with it.
Happy Halloween! Please don't kill me.
Be kind, Review.
